


Joke's on you

by Yarragone



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Bahorel is the mom friend, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, F/M, Fluff, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, Unrequited Love, Unrequited love that becomes requited in the end, gender fluid Claquesous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2019-10-22 06:32:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17657738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yarragone/pseuds/Yarragone
Summary: A series of one shots that might evolve in a long story, because there's kind of a storyline. This is the first thing I am posting here so please, be nice :) I'd love to hear what you're thinking about it, so go on! I rated it Mature because there are some fights and some sex. No smut, though, only fluffy business.Feuilly has been roughed up in a Manifestation led by Enjolras and Bahorel is extremely worried, Combeferre needs to get his shit together with his somewhat feelings for Courfeyrac, Eponine hates her little brother when he doesn't listen to her and Grantaire is helplessly drunk at night. While Montparnasse kicks asses, Jehan writes gothic poetry and Cosette has her first real date with Marius. And, of course, Enjolras is oblivious.





	1. Bahorel's worry

The manifestation had gone wild and the armed forces were making their way through the crowd, dissipating the groups formed, cutting in between the people like an icebreaker would slice Antarctica open. His height helped Bahorel find some of his friend in the flock of scared students running all around him.  
Pushing against the flow, he grabbed Jehan by the collar and shoved him under his arm like a mother hen with her weakest chick before grasping Eponine’s wrist with the other hand. She had her little brother Gavroche safely tucked in her jacket, shouting at him for not listening to her and still coming to the protest when she had forbidden him to do so. Relieved that at least both members of les Amis with most fragile bone composition were safe in a dark alley where no one would find them, Bahorel went back into the street and the flow of the people against the police, bumping his broad shoulders and jumping. Propping himself on his toes, to get a better look.

On the little place this street led to, he could see Enjolras’s crimson jacket so he shuffled this way, taking care of not being seen by the men in blue. Their fearful leader was standing on the foot of General Lamarque’s statue, flying a pride flag over his head and shouting to a people that could probably not hear him anymore. Bahorel got to the knot of fight in front of him and got the police officers’ hands off Courfeyrac and Combeferre, whom was not wearing his glasses anymore. They shot a quick glance at Enjolras, still in the heat of the moment but Bahorel shoved them away.

“I’ll take care of him, don’t worry,” he gruffed.

Combeferre gave him a thankful look before disappearing into the crowd, pulled away to safety by Courfeyrac.  
Bahorel would have preferred Enjolras to stop shouting in his megaphone, he would have liked it better if he wasn’t standing up there on the statue, because everything that happened wouldn’t have if he hadn’t decided to play the climbing monkey.  
Running back to their leader, the big guy couldn’t help but miss the policeman right in front of him from at least two seconds before the latter grabbed Enjolras’s ankle. But instead of shaking it off, Enjolras kept shouting indistinctly, his voice amplified. So the police officer decided to pull. And Enjolras fell, landing with a grunt on his arm, which folded in a very strange position.  
At the sight of his leader on the ground and the tears Grantaire would undeniably try to hide if Enjolras came back from fighting with broken bones, Bahorel’s blood pressure went high. He flipped away the stupid guard before scooping Enjolras up like a fucking princess and took him away despite his protestations. Somehow he had lost his megaphone in his fall, which saved Bahorel’s right ear of deafening.

With all the people running around - students, neighbours, policemen - and the boy that was still struggling in his muscled arms, he couldn’t see much but he managed to catch a glimpse of Joly and Bossuet running off in the street that led to Le Musain. A smile hung on his face when he ran after them, Enjolras bouncing in his grasp, clutching at his arm his face wriggled with pain.

Silently in his head, Bahorel made the count. Jehan, Eponine and Gavroche must be back to their safe spot, by now. He trusted Grantaire to have gone earlier, he was always the first one to go back when the marches became violent, so that he could be sure everyone got home safely and could hide in the back room of his bar. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were gone, too and they must have found Marius because that’s what Courfeyrac always did, when the blue blood of the policemen spilled in the flock.  
Joly and Bossuet running in front of him, he was last with their leader in his arms. Somehow, something felt wrong, as if he was missing someone. Once again, he counted; the wisest girl he’d ever seen and her brother, that was two Thénardiers, added to the fearless leader and his helpless drunken adorer. Then came the center and the guide who lost his glasses, and the two idiots running in front of him. That was nine with him, and twelve with the three redheads that were Jehan, Marius and…  
Bahorel stopped dead when the realisation sunk in.

“Feuilly.”

He had forgotten Feuilly. Of all people, that stupid, gorgeous, hot, best friend of his who was usually always running in his mind had somehow escaped it, for one second. The most important second of his life and what in the hell was he thinking of? He could be locked up in a cell at that exact moment, how would Bahorel get him out of there? He wasn’t even sure he had the rent money ready for this month. He would never be able to pay the caution. But the sight of his Feuilly bleeding somewhere or getting beaten up wiped the money problems off his thoughts.

“You can’t do anything for him right now, Baz.”

Enjolras had raised his weak voice and had managed to get it to his friend’s ear. Bahorel looked down at him. Right. Fearless leader with a broken arm. People running after him. Time to move. More manically than with decision, the biggest guy of les Amis started running again, the stomp of his steps on the pavement echoing the accelerating beating of his heart. He didn’t stop until he was leaning his back against Le Musain’s door. Then, it was a whole blur.  
Someone took Enjolras off his arms, he was patted on the back, people were sitting in the back room of Grantaire’s bar and they could all feel the tension in his muscles, when Bahorel looked around for his favorite redhead. But Feuilly wasn’t there.

“I’ve got to go back.” He said, turning to the door.

But Jehan was standing in his way, their eyes shining with something that was flowing between sadness and anger. Bahorel tried to get past them but Jehan wasn’t letting him go that easy. They crossed their arms and stabbed their glare in his, defying him to try and go past them.

“You’re not going back in there. Feuilly will be fine, he’ll call as he always does and then I’ll let you go after him.”

“Jehan… I need to find him.” He pleaded, his voice breaking. “Please, let me go back, I didn’t look for him in the protest, something bad might be happening right now. Something bad might’ve happened already, I…”

But Grantaire running in the back room and colliding with Jehan at the same time cut them off. He apologised before getting quickly to Enjolras who was getting patched up by Joly despite his gesturing towards the others; clearly stating he wanted them healed first. Relieved to see his Apollo in safe hands, Grantaire went back to the bar, followed quickly by Bahorel who slipped through the door when Jehan wasn’t looking.  
When he went to get out, though, a phone rang. He stopped a minute, waiting for Grantaire to answer. It didn’t even take the bartender a second before calling Bahorel to him. He burst through the empty room, grabbing the phone from paint-splattered hands.

“Feu, is that you?” the big guy shouted.

“Geez, stop howling like that, would you? You’ll get me deaf, one day, as if you weren’t already ruining my hearing, with that stupid favourite Metal band of yours.”

Even in his assured and joking tone, Bahorel could hear Feuilly’s pain. He wasn’t of the ones the redhead could fool, he knew him too well.

“What’s wrong? Couldn't you call my cell? I need to come and find you, where are you?”

Probably getting that Bahorel had read through him, Feuilly stayed silent a moment. Each time the hand on the clock hung up above the door was hitting a new second, the big guy shivered.

“Montmartre, not far from le Sacré-Coeur, just come and get me, Baz.”

“I’m coming, you don’t move.”

“I wouldn’t if I could…” Feuilly laughed softly over the phone while Bahorel hung up.

Jehan was standing right behind him. Bahorel wanted to open his mouth to explain it to them very quickly, but they just got out of his way with a weak smile. Reassured that he could go get Feuilly without a fight, he gave a peck on Jehan’s cheek before getting his purple coat and running off in Paris’s streets.


	2. Gavroche's daily lecture

“You can’t keep coming after me, Gav, I told you this was dangerous.”

Eponine’s baby brother didn’t even care looking at her while she was lecturing him. His eyes glowing with admiration and pride, he was looking around to all those guys patching up their wounds and speaking about the protest, probably feeling like one of them more than ever, wiping his faint nosebleed.

The young woman was sitting with Gavroche on the sofa facing the door to the main room of the bar; her glance could embrace the whole back room from there and she liked it. She noted Jehan coming back without Baz and sitting on Enjolras’s armrest, at the left of the entrance.

The man in red was speaking animatedly to Combeferre, wincing every time he moved his broken arm a little too much, lost in explanations. Courfeyrac was holding the latter’s hand, sitting at his feet, watching Bossuet tripping over a cushion on the floor while showing him how he’d taken care of a police agent and Grantaire was smirking from his corner of the room, engulfed in a big pillow serving him of seat, dark wine swinging in a green bottle held in his hand.

Joly and Marius were sat on Eponine’s right hand side, one standing up to help Bossuet, the other holding a pack of ice against a bruise on his shoulder, his jacket hanging on the other arm, pining over a girl who wasn’t even there. A pinch hurt her heart but she shook her head, concentrating again at her little genetic look-a-like. She could understand his admiration in front of all those grown ups, who must be looking so amazing from a ten years old point of view but she couldn’t let him beam like that, knowing nothing of the consequences. She grabbed her brother’s cheeks between her thumb and fingers and forced him to look right at her.

“Gavroche, I know this might look incredibly fun to do but you have to understand that it is absolutely not.”

He furrowed his brows, momentarily muted by her fingers pushing his cheeks against his teeth.

“These protests are dangerous in two cases. First, you can get hurt pretty easily because you are small - don’t nod, you know you haven’t had any very big growth spurt for the moment - and second, I can get in trouble trying to protect you. That might seem like nothing, I know. I would just be put in custody for the night, get some community service to do, maybe. But you know what I couldn’t be anymore?”

Gavroche shook his head; she could feel he slowly understood when his eyes widened in a mix of fear and sadness.

“Exactly. Your guard would be released from me, because that would make me a bad example for you and financially unstable. You know I can’t afford the custody and the community service, with the jobs I already have.”

Fear burst into his eyes as she spoke and a small, frightened groan escaped his throat. Saddened by his watering eyes, Eponine released him only to get him in a tight embrace against her heart. Stroking her little brother’s so soft and thin hair, she reassured him a little.

“This won’t happen, of course, because from now on you will listen to me and stay safe at home when I go to a protest that could turn wild. Any kind of protest, actually.”

He looked up, a question in his eyes. She grinned.

“You can still come to the pride parades, if you want to.”

A smile answered to that before he put his baby boy’s head back to rest under her chin. Her heart pinched again but it was a good kind of ache, this time.   
She was never showing enough love to her little brother but God knew she loved him.

Around them, the boys had eventually become very quiet, looking at the two siblings tangled together on the couch. With a glare, she defended them to say anything but Jehan didn’t care. They never were really impressed with anyone’s death glare, anyways. Montparnasse must have given them quite the training.

“Eponine, you are the bravest person I know.” They smiled softly.

“But I thought your parents…” tempted Joly.

“Were very good people who know how to raise children?” She snapped back, still holding her brother to her chest. “Obviously not, it took me a long time and a bit of a fight before getting everything I needed to get Gav out of that pig-house. I just couldn’t let him in there.”

“You don’t have to justify anything, Ep’. Not to us, not ever.” Grantaire said before coming to sit next to her and opening his arms. “C’me here.”

She obliged willingly to her best friend’s hug, letting Gavroche part from her as Courf’ lift him up and proceeded to make the boy fly across the room sitting on his shoulders. His cries of joy lifted a weight off his sister’s chest while she sank deeper in Grantaire’s embrace. She would have sworn for half a second that Enjolras was looking at her with envy but it flashed off his face so quickly when their eyes met that she couldn’t be sure.

“You’re probably the best guardian he could ever have. I don’t think he’d fit in a Foster family, he would come back running.” The bartender said in a quiet voice. “He’s a good kid, you’re doing perfectly well.”

“He’ll be a good ally, when he’s big enough!” laughed Courfeyrac, breathless, before getting the child down his shoulders, “Young Gavroche, you need to work your way through your teenage years before coming to join us, I’m afraid, but you’ll be welcomed with open arms then. For the moment, just be really nice to your sister and come to the pride marches, if you like them this much.”

Courfeyrac knelt down in front of Gavroche when Combeferre added: “You can be as much as a revolutionary as us, you just need to find your own way of doing it. Change unfair things at your school, help Eponine and fight for her rights as much as yours. But-” He added quickly before Eponine tried to kill him with a glance. “-Be a good brother to her first. That always comes first because she needs you. And that means not giving her a heart attack by coming to protests you weren’t supposed to be at.”

Glowing with all the attention he was receiving, Gavroche beamed at each one of the boys who answered him with a smile or an encouraging wave. Even Enjolras gave him an appreciative nod, and it was all that Gav could’ve asked for.


	3. Combeferre's feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac is very worried about Feuilly's state, so Combeferre has to comfort him. Of course he has to. And it's not because he just lingers to hold him again.

“Do you think we should get him to the hospital?”

There was fear in Courfeyrac’s voice and Combeferre didn’t like that. Not at all. Because Courf’ was a well tempered, always joyous man, and he never broke. He was the center, the sun, he knew that and kept his poise at all times. But now, Courfeyrac was breaking because Bahorel was sobbing because Feuilly had been hurt. Badly. Not only physically, they had insulted him and even if he hadn’t said anything about it, it was showing on his face. As much as his physical pain, something had been broken off inside of him.

Baz had come to the Musain right away, when he had found Feuilly. The latter had screamed and kicked when he said he was taking him to the hospital, shouting he would be okay, but he accepted to be auscultated by Joly, the only medicine student they had in Les Amis.

The big guy had been crying all the way back to the triumvirat’s apartment, silently, just letting the tears rolls on his face. Feuilly was trying to stay awake and every time he felt him drift away, Bahorel would shush sweet nothings in his ear until he answered weakly.

So now that the bear, the force of nature of the band was broken, sobbing softly on the floor, Courfeyrac was breaking, too. And that was never good. Combeferre hated seeing this face, always so happy, looking this sad and wet and red and blotchy. Out of nowhere, he pulled a fabric tissue of his pocket and held it in front of Courf, whom gladly took it and started to mop his face with it. Combeferre sighed. This still wouldn’t do. He pushed his hand through his hair before pulling Courfeyrac against him. He’d sworn he’d never do that again, when they had broken things off a few years ago, but they both needed each other right now and he wanted to be a bit selfish, for once.

And Courfeyrac didn’t seem to mind, so.

“I don’t think we can do anything right now. He doesn’t want to go to the hospital. I guess he must have a very good reason to. But at least, he accepted to be taken care of by Joly. He will be fine, okay?” Combeferre said softly in Courf’s hair. He could feel his hot breath on his neck, when the other man answered.

“Okay.”

His chubby arms round up Combeferre’s slim waist and he stayed there, bundled up under his arm and against his chest until Joly got up from the couch and Bahorel could finally take Feuilly back into his arms. To let them have a bit of privacy, Combeferre gently led Courfeyrac in the kitchen, where the latter sat down while Ferre put the kettle on.

“I’m making you some tea,” he said, peaceful. “Breathe a second. A good chamomile will make you feel better.”

“I’d rather have a fruit infusion,” opposed Courfeyrac weakly.

“Four red fruits okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Combeferre nodded, pushing back his glasses on his long nose and plucked himself some mint leaves from the plant on the windowsill, putting it down one mug, along with a slice of green lemon on top of which he added three spoons of black tea. A few of his friends couldn’t understand how he could drink the tealeaves with his water but he liked the bitterness of them and would usually munch them for a long time. On the contrary, Courf had always loved really sweet, really fruited tea.

Ferre shook his head. He shouldn’t think about that.

But the thought brought thousand of memories with it so Combeferre remembered all the perks and quirks of living with Courfeyrac as a boyfriend. All the memories of the simplest, stupidest thing came up to his head. How Courf’ only listened to pop music when he was sad, how he liked to tie his almost short hair with scrunchies in the summer, how his laugh rippled in tiny waves, always giving Combeferre chills. The way his eyes shone when he was speaking to small kids, and the colour of his lips when he put gloss on.

All of it was coming back to Combeferre way too vibrant for him to handle, so he took his glasses off, rubbed at the spot where it always hurt a bit, on the bridge of his nose, and put them back on before taking care of the whistling kettle.

Once a changing colour mug in his hands, Courfeyrac settled in the rocking chair in the corner of the kitchen and blew softly on the hot beverage, watching the steam coming off without actually seeing it, his eyes unfocused. Through the door to the living room, Combeferre could hear the faint voices of Feuilly and Bahorel. It sounded like they were arguing but Joly’s voice joined in, so he let them deal with what had just happened together.  
He sat down on a barstool, wrapping his long legs around its feet, facing Courfeyrac who smiled to him, once he’d gotten out of his trance.


	4. Montparnasse's n/fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty's blood boils easily but it's never his fault, when he has to explain it to his soulmate.

It wasn’t Montparnasse’s fault. Jehan couldn’t say anything because it wasn’t his fault. They had followed him down the street when he went to smoke a little further along the outside of the Cabaret. He had tried to get away from conflict, as that sunshine of his had asked for. Fucking homophobes who liked to hunt in front of gay bars to get their shot of adrenaline of the week plus the insane satisfaction of queer bashing. Really, they were asking for it. It wasn’t Montparnasse’s fault if he got in a fight. Plus, they followed him in a dark backstreet; lit by a flickering lamppost, as gloomy as in every black and white horror movie they’d seen on date night.

He could feel the duo of idiots smirking in his back, probably thinking about sneaking up on him. Buy new boots if you want to be as subtle as a cat. And a new coat, bombers look awful on dumbasses.

Montparnasse spun around when a big paw sat on his neck, pushing him forwards. He flashed them a dazzling smile and adjusted the collar of his dark purple tailcoat.

“Well, good evening gentlemen. What can I do for your interest?”

“Oh, I think we gonna have a bit o’ fun wit’cha,” laughed the bigger one, approaching, all broad chest and shoulder muscles tensing. Montparnasse sent him on the ground in no time, which sent the fight rolling.

First punch thrown in by the guy, Monty was acting in self-defense. Okay, maybe he’d put the first one down but he could always make believe he’d tripped. A laugh rang in his sore throat, sounding more like a hyenous bark and didn’t please his opponents at all. A fist rolled in a tight ball of fury ran across his face but Montparnasse couldn’t duck for there was a wall behind him that the punch slammed his head against. He grunted in pain and closed his eyes a split second. Blood was dripping profusely from his nose. Damn, his jacket was going to be stained.

Trying to take control, the smaller one (still standing) grabbed him at the shoulders. If Montparnasse winced, it was only because those greasy fingers would leave marks he’d have to hand wash. The bastard took it as a victory.

“Hah, you ain’t laughin’ now I gotcha, are you!?” He snared.

Montparnasse smiled. The blood slowly making its way down his face actually got in his mouth and, as he laughed again, spat all over the boyish, fat figure.

In a flicker of his wrist, he got his blade out. A really beautiful knife Claquesous and Grantaire had gotten him for his birthday, slim and long, very probably illegal. It shone in the dim light and, as he pressed it against the other guy’s throat, it drew a red line on his throbbing Adam’s apple. Slowly, the grasp on his shoulders loosened so Monty breathed again, rolling his muscles to release the tension. The idiot still on the ground got a flat-heeled boot right in the nose when he tried to get up. Not that Montparnasse liked to brag but he was sure he’d heard a noise of something getting broken.

“So,” he said in a syrupy tone. “I have a few things I want to make sure you remember. My name is Montparnasse, say it.”

He got a gargle ending with an “ass” but that was more than what a few of his victims had gotten out.

“Good. When you hear this name, boy, you run. I am everywhere and I know every living thing in Paris. I’d rather not kill you right now, so you’ll be a nice one and get out of this street when I tell you to. Drag your mate on the way out, we don’t want any trash laying around, now, do we?”

“We don’t…?” whined the boy.

“Indeed we don’t. Now, remember Montparnasse and go.”

When he eventually found himself alone, Monty hung a cigarette between his lips and, as he was searching around for his lighter, felt blood dripping from his nose. Shit, the adrenaline had him forget that. He had to see Jehan in five minutes and that wouldn’t stop until then, for sure.

“Fuck it,” he grumbled, lighting his cigarette and starting to walk quickly towards the cemetery, where the small ball of sunshine had given him rendezvous. Certainly, they would whimper and sweep his face clean. Probably, they wouldn’t want to kiss until he’d had his mouth washed with a non-alcoholic beverage. But they would care and read him Edgar Allan Poe until he’d feel better, even if he weren’t feeling bad. And Monty would do anything to get Jehan to give him a bit of their care, even the smallest portion of it.


	5. Grantaire and Ponine's night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heartbroken Grantaire stumbles upon his best friend sleeping.

Everything was going sideways. As he stepped onto the pavement, Grantaire nearly fell over but it wasn’t enough to make him stop. He took another swig of the bottle swinging in his hand. God knew what was in there; he’d taken the first he’d found on the shelf before going home. Maybe it even was the second he had decided to drink tonight. Who cared? Grantaire just wanted to scream and shout in the streets of Paris. To let the whole world know he was turning insane and nothing could stop him.

It hurt. Deep inside of him it hurt like hell and heaven all meshed up together. As if someone had decided to take his heart and rip it from its chest, only to replace it by a tiny monster in fury, scratching around. Grantaire laughed when he saw Enjolras’s face. Why on earth did he stay in there? He didn’t want that place Grantaire’s heart had given him and ‘Taire didn’t want him there either. But he wouldn’t fuck off; he just kept killing him slowly and making him dive into madness. Yeah, because he wasn’t mad enough already.  
Grantaire found a pole on which to hang his arms and help him up a bit. That was the fourth one. Only seven more until he was home. Monty wouldn’t like that, to see him in this state. The drunk grimaced to the lamppost. He didn’t like when Montparnasse judged his life choices. Of course, that bastard was always fucking right.

A giggle escaped his throat when he got back to his feet and started walking again, swaying gently through the night. His eyes got up to the sky and he grimaced some more. Paris wasn’t good for stargazing, too many lights in the streets and fog in the air to let them shine. ‘Ponine had plastered a good hundred up on his bedroom’s ceiling because he had complained about it, once. But he couldn’t see these either. Why again?

Oh. Right. He was in the street, not in his room.

It took him more than seven lampposts to get back to his flat but that only was because he tried a shortcut which wasn’t one and got hissed at by stray cats to which he hissed back.

No one was up in the dark apartment when he eventually managed to climb up the stairs. Only a note on the door of his room, white pen on black paper saying the strict minimum:

“ ’Sous at Cabaret, I’m off. There’s aspirin on the kitchen table. Drink water, we don’t want you getting alcohol poisoning.”

It was signed by a cat’s silhouette, wearing a top hat. With a crooked smile, Grantaire snatched it and crumpled it into a ball before making it jump from one hand to the other. It seemed like he had lost his bottle on the way. Probably a coup of the stray cats. Like a nice flat mate he obeyed the note and took the aspirin on the table with a big glass of water he descended in a long swig.

Eventually back to his bedroom, Grantaire found ‘Ponine on the bed. For a second, he stopped in the step of the door; just to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating, but that decidedly wasn’t the case.

Eponine’s silhouette was heaving to the peaceful pace of her breaths, tucked under the covers of the mattress he’d thrown on the floor when he had sold the bed frame because he needed money for new canvases.

For one second, he considered setting a new one up on his easel and starting a new painting but all he had in head was red and gold and he didn’t want to cry tonight. Instead, he stripped down to his boxers, falling over twice, and hurting his knee before he huddled under the covers and around his best friend’s back. 

Even with all the care and softness of the world, he still managed to wake her up. She startled awake, planting an elbow in his ribcage before she recognized his scent and voice.

“It’s just me, ‘Ponine. I’m back home.”

“You stink.”

Grantaire grumbled; his face snuggled in her hair. She shooed him away.

“I am not joking, you idiot. Go shower or you won’t sleep in this bed.”

“It’s my bed,” he whined.

“I don’t care.”

“But-“

“No buts, ‘Taire.”

“Come with me, then.”

Eponine sighed but she shuffled forwards and out of the bed sheets. As she got up, Grantaire splayed on the bed but she’d have none of that. Instead of forcing him to get up, she stole all the covers, leaving his bare skin out in the cold, and got to the bathroom. He was right behind her when she turned the shower knob.

“You took the covers,” he whined again but she didn’t care to answer.

“C’me on, get in there. And put that boxer in the laundry bag.”

They had to squish together to be both under the water jet at the same time but neither of them really did care, and when Grantaire kissed Eponine, she kissed him right back. It had never been weird between them. To their eyes, that was just another way of showing each other how much they cared, without meaning anything else. And when they got back to the bed, hair wet and skin burning with envy, it was just an evidence that both of them would have a really good night together.

Montparnasse found them both holding tight onto each other, at the point when you don’t know where a body stops and where the other starts. He had just been checking out on Grantaire, to be sure he was home, but he found him in the best company he could have yet so he let a faint smile take over his usual smirk and closed the door softly before going on to the kitchen’s window and light himself his umpteenth smoke of the day.


End file.
